Down The Street

It was those orange glass grapes. They sat on a shelf in the cutaway to the living room at my friend's house. They had a thin layer of dust on them, and that's what bugged me. My "friend" had taken issue with my mother's ability to keep a clean house. Who was this clown to tell me that my mother wasn't on top of her game? Since when was it okay for us to criticize each other's mothers?
To be certain, this kid was my friend in the most desperate way. This is to say that I started walking to school with him in Kindergarten and continued right up until ninth grade. In between, he tested my patience and loyalty in ways that would have sent most people looking for the door. It just got me back on my knees, begging for more. Somehow I got the idea that if I put up with all his abuse, he would accept me, which turned out to be essentially true, if only for the most rudimentary connection. Looking back, I find it odd that he felt that he was somehow able to tolerate me, when he was the one who was so regularly obnoxious to me. Did I need a friend that bad? I used to think so.
That's why I never confronted him on the whole housecleaning issue. I defended my mother, but I never lowered myself to his level. I didn't dare. He might choose to "drop" me, as he did periodically when I failed to meet his odd requirements for friendship. Would I bring him more Snickers bars from my house? Could I help him cheat on a math test? Can we melt that model airplane of yours? He had a list of nicknames for me, each of which described what he felt were my faults: "Tuba, birds-nest, zitface," and so on. And yet he continued to show up on our doorstep, looking for goodies. He came along on my family's trips to Dairy Queen or the local amusement park. He was my guest. He was my friend.
And I showed up on his doorstep as well, day after day, week after week. I would often have to wait ten to fifteen minutes each morning as he struggled to get ready for school. I sat in his living room, watching their TV, waiting, looking at those orange grapes, and experiencing that faint odor of cabbage that lingered. I used to think that I was the unhappy kid. I was the one who was miserable because I was willing to take all that grief just for the opportunity to be his pal. My mother was there to send me off in the morning and welcome me home. His mom had already sent two older brothers through school. She didn't have time for him. She was busy cleaning house. At least that's what I was told. Now I feel bad for him, but not bad enough to ignore the dust on those orange glass grapes.